On The Mating Habits of Birds (Damn Birdfolk Remix)
by Red Bess Rackham
Summary: They're a damn sight less romantical than most folk, which suits them just fine. Criss-crossing the black on the orders of an intergalactic intelligence agency don't leave much time for it. She's always been a casualwear kinda girl. Him, too. She supposes that's why they get on so well, have gotten on since the first time she met him. (Clint/Bobbi, space AU, Oneshot)


_A/n: Another fic I'm posting way late to FF (which I've been having ENDLESS uploading troubles with, augggh) - this was created for the remix_me 2016 on Dreamwidth and AO3. I wrote a remix of "On the Mating Habits of Birds" by scribblemyname. My first thought was to put them in space and after much humming and hawing, I went for it, written in the style of Firefly. This is my first remix fic, so I hope I did all right and you like it, scribble! :) Major thanks to my ever fabulous beta, stars_inthe_sky._

* * *

 **On The Mating Habits of Birds (Damn Birdfolk Remix)**

They're a damn sight less romantical than most folk, which suits them just fine. Criss-crossing the black on the orders of an intergalactic intelligence agency don't leave much time for it. She's always been a casualwear kinda girl. Him, too. She supposes that's why they get on so well, have gotten on since the first time she met him.

* * *

He slumps into the locker room, looking beat to hell, with bruises under his eyes and bandages forming quite the patchwork over his arms. She raises an eyebrow at him, stashing her sticks in her locker.

"Rough night?"

His smile lifts just one corner of his mouth in a sorta sweet, self-deprecating way. "That bad, huh?"

He crosses the room to his own locker, retrieving a black bow—the kind of weapon Bobbi ain't laid eyes on in ages. He gives it a twirl—deft fingers, strong hands, arm muscles twitching and flexing.

"The Union weren't real cheery 'bout S.H.I.E.L.D. cutting into their little raid on the Edge," he answers with a shrug, holding his bow steady alongside. "Ain't the first time, won't be the last, I s'pect."

Bobbi nods. Had her fair share of missions what clashed with Union plans or schemes over the past couple years. S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't officially pick a side in the War—claimed to stay out of it and still does for the most part—so neither had she. She's always got the feeling that most folk silently (or not so much, depending on who) sided with the Rebels, though. She always thought she would've, given the choice.

She figures it's only a matter of time before the Union shuts S.H.I.E.L.D. down for good, anyway. They ain't never had a love for the neutral, independent agency.

"No, s'pect it ain't," she agrees.

He tosses her an agreeable sort of look and reaches for his quiver, slinging it over his back. That's when Bobbi recognizes him as Hawkeye—she's heard about him by name but never paired with him for a mission.

"Barton, right?" she asks.

He bobs his head and holds out a hand laden with taped fingers and bruised knuckles. "Morse?"

She gives his hand a sure but easy shake, mindful of his injuries, though he don't seem to notice them himself so much.

Yeah, she liked him straight away.

* * *

Few months on, they're paired up. They knock out some bad folk. They spend three days holed up in a B'kasa safehouse on Mijem before shipping back to S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ. They don't talk about the War, even when she catches a glimpse of a tiny Rebel insignia scratched into the bottom of his quiver. Ain't no reason to—everybody lost. Ain't nothing new.

Even when they go on a second mission, and a third, and he takes out the target from on high, they don't mention it. He tosses her a chilly Nuvian brew, and she cups the can gratefully. Banters a bit, feels good perched at the safehouse table. He's salt-of-the-earth, the likes of which she ain't been close to in a while. Comes with the territory, she supposes.

Even when there's only one bed, because of course there is, and they both climb into it after a very long, brutal day, they don't mention the War. And the next mission, when they're riding high after a sweet victory, and the next, and the next.

The Union never saw them coming, and Bobbi savors the thrill of their ship blasting out of atmo, leaving the U's scrambling in their dust. The kiss is an impulse she doesn't bother to stop. He don't mind in the slightest, neither, if the way he kisses her back has any meanin'.

* * *

Somewhere around the twelfth or fifteenth job, she gets winged and goes down. Wind's knocked clean out, and she gasps for air as blood oozes from her shoulder. The lights in the warehouse spin and bleed together far above her.

Clint blasts the last target and drops to her side. He lets out a string of curses so colorful that Bobbi's laughing, hard, despite only just getting her breath back in her lungs. The ceiling comes back into focus, plain and gray.

"Stop," he says, shucking his thin jacket and pressing it against her shoulder. His lips quirks up a little, but his face is pale and lined with worry. "Stop laughing, Morse. Ain't nothin' crackin' funny about you going down."

And the way he says it—the _way_ he looks at her—he ain't saying nothin' at all about the red seeping between his fingers. _I love you_ , he's saying. _I can't lose you._ And she ain't sentimental but tears spring to her eyes anyhow. She pretends it's just because of the bullet and the fight and the blood.

"Sorry," she tells him, once she's got a hold of herself a mite. She can hear their backup roaring in for a landing outside. "Couldn't let him take you instead." She holds his gaze and knows he hears her answer him back: _I love you too_.

* * *

Coulson's just damn glad they're back in more or less one piece, and he tells 'em as much after Bobbi's been patched up.

"Best team I got out there." He crosses his arms over his chest. And they're all masters of ain't never saying what they mean, so she hears Coulson's _Thanks the stars you're okay_ hanging in the air all the same.

They head out of the briefing room when their done reportin' and the like.

"Glad you made it home, Birdie." Clint shoots her a relieved sorta smile that gets her glowing.

"Me too," she murmurs.

* * *

Tracking fugitives to the Edge planets in the corner of the galaxy usually don't go well, and this ain't an exception. They were s'posed to catch 'em by surprise, and woulda, but somebody musta tipped them off. First there's a shootout, then a chase where they're clean outta bullets, and then—of course—it starts crackin' raining.

"Son of a..." Bobbi hisses.

She's got her sticks out and she beats down one of the fugitives. He's a mite too skilled to be some jailbreaking backbirth like she'd been led to believe, but this job's smelled off right from the jump. Coulson sent them anyways, though he'd been frowning the whole time and urged them to be extra careful.

Clint was hopping roofs for a spell, but now he's down in the muck with her as the fight ratchets up in intensity. Six against two ain't great odds, but hell, they've been in worse.

Bobbi kicks out and nails the meaty man in the knees. He yowls and tumbles into the mud, rolling away. She's on him right quick before he can recover, elbow to the back. The others are getting away while six-foot-plus here keeps her occupied. He lashes out and sends her sprawling, batons fumbling out of reach.

She catches a split second glimpse of Clint, wrestling down another tall man—less bulky than the one after her—and they're having a shouting match, though she can't make out what they're speakin' at. The rest of the fugi's are barrelling towards a waiting transpo—somebody on the ramp screaming for them to hurry.

Bobbi grits her teeth and swings her sticks hard and fast. Her opponent growls.

"You ain't got any damn idea what's goin' on!" he yells. He spins, and she follows, staying close and then his head smashes into hers.

Bobbi drops, white flashing in her vision.

"Stay down!" Mountain Man bellows. His heavy footsteps squelch away right quick.

Bobbi sits up, trying to swipe the rain and mud from her eyes. Clint's got his bow trained on the man he'd been fighting, but he ain't shooting 'im. She's about to hop to, tear after her quarry or Clint's, but then he drops his bow and the fugitive bolts.

She drags herself to wobbly feet, crackin' sore all over. _Expect I'll have a fancy set of bruises come 'morrow_ , she thinks with a groan, flexing her already-purpling knuckles.

The transpo takes off in a hurry and swerves up into the clouds unloading on the dark streets below.

"Why'd you let him walk?" Bobbi asks when Clint trudges close enough to hear her.

"This ain't what we think it is," he replies, face full of conflicting emotion. It's an echo of what her target said and makes her all manner of uneasy. Rain and mud make dirty, wet trails down his worn features. He adds, "Remember those files we found on the Red Room?"

Bobbi's gut twists. No, this ain't what they thought it was at all.

* * *

Coulson's a mite less than pleased that the transpo got away. But S.H.I.E.L.D.'s not in the business of turning over sixteen-year-old girls to the Union to be tortured in the name of science, no matter what they'd been told, so he eases up when he hears the full details.

They know enough about HYDRA, about its Red Room and other, more horrifying Union-approved programs. Been trying to trying to take them out for nigh a decade but the Union is always one step ahead, protecting their little pocket of "progress".

Turns out the fugitives, led by Clint's quarry and Mountain Man, are in the business of dismantling the Red Room. Turns out the Union lied. Turns out all their instincts about the job were right after all.

Coulson casually loses the fugitives's file.

* * *

This sorry little town'd practically cleared out after a recent Scavenger scare, leaving it wide open for a nasty gang to take up residence. S.H.I.E.L.D _is_ in the business of dismantling criminal rings, fortunately, so they send Mockingbird and Hawkeye to clean the place up.

An hour after they land, sticks and bow in hand, right outside the bar this gang's commandeered, their hidey-hole is in ruins. There's seven bodies: three freshly corpsified (couldn't be helped), four unconscious. The other nine are in cuffs, groaning and spitting, with bloodied noses and all manner o' minor injuries marking up their bodies. Bobbi's surely satisfied they've finally cleaned out the last of that particular brand o' scum.

As a group of fresh-faced agents round the lot of 'em up for tranpo back to HQ, Bobbi collapses into the dusty sand. Three days in a row of this—she's tetchy and stretched too thin, even if she won't admit it outright.

"You were somethin' fierce out there," says Clint. His shadow moves across her closed eyes, so she cracks one open, squints up.

"Ain't so bad yourself, Hawkeye."

He ducks his head with a little laugh. "You know, I could do this, with you, for a while. Forever, I think." He watches her, studies her like he can't never get enough. "Could do a lot of things with you forever, I think."

She opens both eyes fully. "That a proposal, sport?"

"Basically," he replies and holds his hand out to her. "That a yes?"

Her lips curve into a smile. "Basically."

"Swell," he says, like it ain't such a thing. He helps her to her feet.

His grin— _that_ grin he gives her in return—sends warmth flooding through her chest. She doesn't notice the sticky sweat trailing down her limbs, the abrasive heat, or the emerging bruises on her body anymore.

It's a proposal that's a damn sight from romantical by most folks's standards, she expects. But she and Clint ain't never built for that fuzzy-wuzzy stuff. This fits—fits them, fits their lives, fits their world.

She tucks her hand into his and together they walk to the transpo waiting to take them away, speeding through the black.

 **-end-**

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 _A/n: Thanks for reading! Feedback is love._


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